


lacking in emotion

by ghostburr



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
Genre: M/M, burr: kind of a mean top, hamilton: i'm going to fucking kill you, there's blood involved i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr
Summary: “Why on earth would I apologize to you?” He asked, laughing as if they were discussing a misunderstanding in court; a missed invitation to a dinner. Burr stepped even closer, too brave and too familiar, now, reaching out to pick a tiny leaf from Hamilton’s shoulder, “Why would I apologize for giving you the best night of your life? General, come now. We are both men of the world.”
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	lacking in emotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizajumel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajumel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [call it a necessary evil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463954) by [elizajumel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajumel/pseuds/elizajumel). 



> this is a part II to elizajumel's work

Hamilton could still taste Burr’s blood. It had been fifteen days. Every time he swallowed he felt the flavor slide across his tongue and creep down his throat. 

He paced back and forth in his office, absentmindedly checking the clock, and staring at the half- finished letter on his desk. As if by some divine intervention, stopping Hamilton from his intrusive thoughts, Troup let himself in, and shook the general from his torpor.

“Bobby--” Hamilton muttered, walking over to him. Troup stood back, eyeing him with the suspicious look he’d been wearing for that entire blasted summer in the cramped, miserable city. 

“You look deranged,” Bobby said. “Have you been writing to Adams again?”

Troup crossed his arms. He had taken to making pit-stops in Hamilton’s office on his daily walks around the city. He’d been a help in the past few weeks, organizing speeches and handing out pamphlets.He’d been like a mother hen, watching over Hamilton’s shoulder, bringing him information from clients and agents, writing to their mutual friends. 

Hamilton vowed, in the fifteen days since, to never- _ -ever--  _ let himself hit rock bottom again

“I brought you more water. Fresh this time, not from that stinking, fetid well…” Troup mumbled, walking over to the desk with a heavy pitcher. “Nearly one-hundred degrees outside, according to some friends I just spoke to at the tavern.” 

“I thank you,” Hamilton managed, filling a glass and downing it. He loosened his cravat. He’d taken to not wearing the more restrictive vests; wearing looser pants, thinner stockings. Nothing helped. 

“You look like you haven’t slept again.” Troup put his hands on his hips. He waited, and when Hamilton did not respond, “I know these past few weeks have been stressful on you but you must take a break.” He fished in his pocket for a letter, handing it to Hamilton, “This is from Mrs. Hamilton, by the way. She worries about you.”

Hamilton eyed the paper, wax seal already broken, wondering if it had been Bobby or someone else who’d snooped. 

“Just put it on the pile, would you,” Hamilton responded tiredly. He poured himself another glass. “I cannot face her.”

“It’s been almost a month, Alexander,” Troup said. 

“I have to finish this,” Hamilton took his glass and sat back down at the desk. 

“Are you in your right mind to write to the president?” Troup asked kindly. He hadn’t meant to sound rude, but Hamilton turned on him. 

“What is that supposed to mean? I am fine. I’m not some child that needs constant petting, Bobby. Leave me be,” Hamilton turned red, raised his arm towards the door, “Enough of your constant hovering.”

Troup’s expression changed from kindness to offense. “Very well, Alexander. I leave you to it, then.”

Before Hamilton could apologize, his friend turned on his heel and left the small office, slamming the door behind him. Hamilton bit his tongue, immediately regretful. He slumped back in his chair, covering his eyes. The late afternoon buzzed with cicadas and the shout of vendors on the street outside. 

He swallowed; felt it slip down his throat. 

The thoughts, the words, the feelings. Fifteen days. And he could still  _ feel  _ it. 

He scribbled a profoundly dirty letter to Elizabeth, writing out his erotic thoughts and what he’d like to do to her-- spilled out so plainly his face burned and he shocked himself with his own violence. In the morning he caught a glimpse of it and, embarrassed, tore it to shreds and threw it out the window. She would not like it or stand for it, the mother of his children.

_ General-- you know better than that. You’re disgusting.  _

Burr’s voice was with him always. Fifteen days, and nights. A fly buzzed in through the window, and like a cat Hamilton slammed his palm on it, killing it instantly. He scraped it off his skin. 

He looked at his ridiculous letter to the president who despised him. 

_ It has been repeatedly mentioned to me that you have, on different occasions, asserted the existence of a British Faction in this Country, embracing a number of leading or influential characters of the Federal Party--and that you have sometimes named me as one of this Faction-- _

Hamilton gritted his teeth and balled his fist against the parchment, destroying it, destroying another paper full of ink and anger directed at someone who didn’t deserve it--a false target, a person who would take the brunt of his rage when really Hamilton knew exactly who needed to feel how furious he’d been.

He tried to steady his breath; the late afternoon made him groggy. He put his head down, closed his eyes. 

_ You love this, don’t you? Being forced—it makes you feel less guilty...I want to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. _

Hamilton jerked his head up.

He blinked, waking in starts. It had been an hour’s nap. Nothing out of place. All letters still scattered in front of him. Pitcher of water. Glass. Ink. Quill. His abdomen trembled and his pants tightened. He touched himself. Fifteen days. He swallowed. 

_ No _ .

Hamilton closed his eyes and took another long gulp of water, wishing it were colder. He waited until he was in control of himself again, and walked over to the basin, filling it. He splashed his face and that seemed to help, looking up in the small mirror on the wall, turning his head this way and that. Two nights after Burr had  _ defiled  _ him the bruise was there: purple and red. He loved it. Wrapped his neck tie around it, a secret. Hid it from everyone. He took a finger and trailed it along his throbbing pulse; it had long since disappeared. 

_ Would you like another?  _

_ Yes, sir, _ Hamilton heard himself cry out. Remembered the frantic babbling and the feel of the sheets against his face and wondering furiously how many others had been taken on them, if Burr even had them laundered since. His stomach turned again with lurid curiosity. 

There was no way around it, Hamilton decided. It was a humiliation. It was completely improper and cruel. If Burr were a better man he’d have met him with a pistol but he was a bought lackey; a whore, selling himself to the highest bidder for a party that plainly despised him. Hamilton walked over to the letter he started to Adams and took a thick, mean, black line to it. 

_ Who are you mad at, Little Hamilton?  _

Hamilton memorized the way to Burr’s quarters in the city: three lefts and two rights, fifteen minute walk in the wet hot evening. The building was a thin, tall thing, crammed between two much nicer establishments, one of which was a boarding house filled with women-- Hamilton scoffed. Of course. He didn’t even bother knocking. 

“Ah!” Burr looked up from the drawing room to the left, the look of shock alight on his features, a look he didn’t wear often and which Hamilton reveled in. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” 

From the top of the stairs, an unfamiliar voice; Hamilton looked up wordlessly to see the tall, handsome Dayton looking down on him, holding a stack of papers, “Well? What do you want? We’re busy.”

Hamilton opened and closed his mouth, “I...Mr Dayton. I need to speak with Colonel Burr alone, if you don’t mind.”

“You can’t kick me out. I’m not going anywhere.” Dayton shot back, hitting the bottom step and pushing past him. Hamilton studied the man; the sweet, awkward boy from the Academy had been warped. 

_ As you have, perhaps? _

Burr stood, “Dayton, trust me, it is not worth fighting. Would you be so good and deliver these tonight? They need to be in the recipient’s hand by the end of the week, and I am afraid we are running out of time.”

Hamilton’s eyes followed the tiny stack of letters, unopened, thick. Dayton nodded silently, _ a good pet _ , Hamilton thought crudely, and watched him disappear out the front door. 

“There now, General, you have me all to yourself.”

“Where did he go?” 

“He is on his way to Philadelphia,” Burr replied making his way back to the drawing room. 

Hamilton followed him, “Who is the recipient.”

Burr drew the curtains down, blocking out the burning sunset, “That is none of your concern. Drink?”

He indicated to a bottle of wine on the nearby bookshelf. Immediately Hamilton recognized it as the drink they’d shared fifteen days ago. He braced himself. 

“Are we alone?” Hamilton stepped forward, eyeing him. Burr grinned and downed the glass of deep red liquid, lips stained. 

“Quite.” 

Hamilton bit his lip, tearing it, launching into his invective: “It has been fifteen days and you still have yet to apologize to me. Not a word. Not even one of your boys has come by to say anything to me. Not a letter, not a note,  _ nothing _ .”

With every word, Hamilton grew warmer, angrier. With every word, Burr’s smile widened. 

“Why on earth would I apologize to you?” He asked, laughing as if they were discussing a misunderstanding in court; a missed invitation to a dinner. Burr stepped even closer, too brave and too familiar, now, reaching out to pick a tiny leaf from Hamilton’s shoulder, “Why would I apologize for giving you the best night of your life? General, come now. We are both men of the world.”

“I am not a man like you,” Hamilton managed. “I can’t sleep anymore. Every time I swallow I can feel you in my mouth. I can  _ taste  _ you.”

Burr stared at the other man’s lips. 

“It doesn’t matter what I do. How much water I drink or how many times I bathe myself,” Hamilton dropped his voice to an angry whisper, “I can still feel you inside of me, on top of me, I can hear your evil words when I close my eyes to sleep.”

“Aww,” Burr sneered, “Like a little prayer. You always did mix sex and religion in the most delicious ways. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? I have a feeling this conversation has only just begun.”

Without breaking eye contact, Hamilton reached over to the shelf and took a long sip of wine straight from the bottle. He closed his eyes, swallowing it. When he opened them again, Burr was near him. 

“Can you still taste me?” Burr whispered into his neck, the curve of his ear. He held his glass aloft, twinkling in the low fire he always kept burning, even in August. “Can you still feel me fucking that outrageous little mouth of yours? God,  _ what  _ will it take to get you to shut up?”

Hamilton grabbed him by the neck tie, bringing their mouths millimetres apart, “What will it take for  _ you  _ to be a man and challenge what I say in the  _ daylight _ ? How many times do I need to  _ insinuate  _ your profligacy before you will finally defend yourself?”

“There’s nothing to defend,” Hamilton could practically feel Burr’s lips on his, taste the wine on his tongue.

Hamilton grabbed the wine glass from the other man and shattered it against the hearth of the fireplace, gripping the stem and whipping the sharpened end to Burr’s throat. His knuckles turned white, squeezing the expensive linen of Burr’s cravat, keeping him in place while the glistening blade of the broken wine glass danced dangerously near Burr’s neck. 

“I could fucking kill you, right here, and no one would know it was me,” Hamilton whispered. “No one followed me here. No one would know. I could slit your throat and leave you in a puddle for Dayton to find.”

A manic smile spread across Burr’s face, “Do it.”

“Don’t fucking try me,” Hamilton spat, pressing the cut glass just enough so that a tiny red droplet formed next to Burr’s pulse. His eyes traveled across the exposed flesh, the uncomfortable hardness between his legs. He hated himself. The angrier he got, the more Burr smiled. 

_ “Do _ it, Hamilton,” Burr taunted him further, backing into a taut, luxuriously upholstered chaise. He fell back onto it, bringing Hamilton with him. 

“You defiled me,” Hamilton began again, tightening his grip. He felt Burr struggle against the beautiful fabric, pressed into him. 

“You  _ loved  _ it, General. You loved every second of it.”

“Do you know what I could do to you right now? I’ve thought about it, you know. Over the past two weeks. How I could sneak into your bedroom at night--” Hamilton hissed, maneuvering the other man onto his back, glass still at Burr’s throat, frightfully red stain spreading slowly on the white linen of his neck tie, “--I bet you don’t even keep your doors locked. I thought about that. Sneaking into your bedroom, covering your mouth and fucking you and defiling you like you did to me. I bet you’d  _ love  _ it, wouldn’t you?” His words flew from his mouth, nonsensical, as he’d been the first night they were together. 

Burr tilted his head back and laughed, seemingly unaffected by the blade at his neck. 

Hamilton pinned him down further, the cushion sinking under their weight. He took the blade from Burr’s throat and split the fabric of his linen shirt, tearing it apart to reveal bare, flushed skin, starting to glisten with sweat. Hamilton took the cut glass, and dragged it down Burr’s exposed torso; a dark pink line warning him not to press any harder. 

Hamilton gritted his teeth, bending forward and bringing his mouth to Burr’s ear again, “I would make you beg for it. I would make you wake your neighbors.”

Burr locked eyes with him, “I’m  _ still  _ not impressed.” His lips, full and red from the wine, parted. Hamilton stared at them, still wielding the cut class. He straddled Burr, legs spread, pressed into him--

“You’re as hard as I am right now,” Hamilton muttered, grinding into the man beneath him. He took the sharp edge of the wine glass and cut the cravat from around Burr’s neck, letting it fall to the floor in a pile, bringing his mouth to the small cut near his jugular. He continued the frenzied whispers, tasting blood again, the same taste that had been torturing him for weeks. Hamilton moved his hips slowly, pushing deeper, the chaise groaning beneath their movement.

“You’re as hard as I am right now,” he repeated, purring; felt the other man’s cock stir, “You want me to fuck you like you fucked me, right here in your drawing room. Should I open the shades, so everyone can see? This is exactly what you wanted. This is what you were hoping for but were too shy to say it...aren’t you so  _ demure _ , Colonel, like a virgin on her wedding night.” 

Burr reached out to grab Hamilton’s hair, but was viciously slapped away. The fanatical glint in Hamilton’s eye returned, he sat up straight, wielding the glass like weapon,  _ “Don’t you dare.” _

Burr grinned again, stubborn silence. He gripped the side of the chaise. 

Hamilton brought the blade to Burr’s pants, slicing the buttons, one by one, each making a tiny pitter-patter as they hit the ground. Burr’s eyes watched him, waiting-- hungrily. With each tug, Hamilton spoke. 

_ “I’m going to make you scream,”  _ Hamilton pulled the other man’s pants down roughly, smiling at how  _ hard  _ he was, his teeth glinting sharply in the orange flames from the fireplace on the wall near them. It was almost too easy-- another sharp breath, and Hamilton found himself licking his lips, desperately craving the taste he’d had two weeks ago-- no-- he distracted himself by pulling his own shirt off and discarding it. 

Hamilton bent over Burr again, bringing their mouths together. He spread Burr’s lips apart with his tongue, pulsating, tasting the wine. He pulled back, biting, then dove back in. He relished in the taste, almost romantic: two lovers sharing a passionate kiss.

As if by instinct he was grinding again, the fabric around his groin painfully stretched--he needed it off--needed release-- _ no-- _

Before he could think Hamilton had slipped a hand beneath his own breeches and was stroking himself. In his mind’s eye he saw himself doing to Burr what Burr had done to him-- shoving his cock down the other man’s throat and making him choke on his words. Hamilton pulled it out, maneuvered himself above Burr’s head. 

“ _ Spit _ on it,” he hissed. Burr smiled-- soft, insinuating, as sensual as Hamilton had imagined he would be. He took the tip and pushed it between Burr's full lips, “I said  _ spit  _ on it, Colonel.”

Black eyes locked him in place; a thin, glistening trail of saliva covered the head. 

Hamilton wielded the glass, holding it at Burr’s neck.

_ “Good soldier, _ ” He purred, “Now turn around for me.”

Black eyes locked Hamilton in place again, arresting his breath and making his knees go weak. Burr parted his lips, took Hamilton into his mouth again-- and bit him. 

_ “Fuck-- _ ” Hamilton swore, jerking his body, and dropping the broken wine glass, shattering it completely. The pain intensified the pleasure, and he pushed himself further into Burr’s mouth, fucking through the pain--the tight, wet warmness bringing him close enough to come right there. Hamilton imagined how it would look--wanted to make him swallow it all-- he grabbed a handful of Burr’s hair and fulfilled his promises. 

“I  _ told  _ you I would fuck you like this,” he swore. Hamilton pulled himself out of Burr’s mouth, wet and glistening, “Spit on it again. And then turn around.”

Burr complied. Hamilton positioned himself behind the man beneath him, wrapping his arm around Burr’s neck, remembering how it felt to be held captive. He felt like he could pass out. 

Hamilton brought his mouth to Burr’s ear, slowly entering him, loving the pathetic noises Burr made.

“I don’t want to hear another word out of you unless it’s my name.” A soft, desperate groan from the man beneath him, and Hamilton continued, breathless, “You  _ like  _ that, don’t you? You love how much it hurts. You love the pain, just like me.” He began thrusting, slowly, achingly, sliding in and out, feeling the way Burr’s chest heaved and his breath fluttered. Hamilton continued his curses, picking up his pace, “You want me like this, angry and hard--”

Burr steadied himself against the chaise, their movements causing it to bump and slide against the wooden floor. He closed his eyes, moaning into the silk upholstery-- _ taking it like a man, like a good soldier- _ -Hamilton tightened his arm around Burr’s neck. He let out another helpless noise, and Hamilton, gritted his teeth:

_ “What did you say?” _

“I said _ yes--” _

“--Yes  _ what?”  _ Hamilton pushed deeper into him, mouth against his shoulder blade. The chaise scraped against the floor, knocking into the wall, with the rhythm of Hamilton’s fast, brutal thrusts. He picked up his pace, feeling close to his climax, “--Yes what? I can’t hear you--” 

“Yes,  _ Alexander-- _ ” Burr moaned again.

“Say it again.” Hamilton felt his teeth hit skin; the warm salty taste of Burr’s flesh. He took his free hand and reached around, stroking Burr, feeling how close he was already, “I want to hear you scream my name when you come. You’re going to scream like I screamed.”

_ “Alexander--” _ Burr cried again, using the jolting chaise as leverage, pushing himself back into the other man. He came in long, languid bursts, mouth hanging open in silent pleading, as Hamilton fucked him through it. In the next second he was moaning, wild, letting the warm liquid spill out onto the expensive fabric and onto Hamilton's’ closed fist.

He kept pulling and stroking, even as Burr came, the feeling coursing over him in waves of incomparable pleasure; Burr’s mind went blank, “Alexander--please-- _ don’t stop--” _

Hamilton was close, he kept his arm wound tightly around Burr’s neck; felt the chaise hitting the wall with each angry slam of his hips, he felt the sensation build in his fingertips, groin, swelling cock-- the sound of Burr’s breaths, the sight of him coming undone and screaming his name-- he repeated it in his mind, the sound--  _ Alexander-- _

“Fuck- _ -fuck me--”  _ Hamilton cried, spilling himself out, biting into Burr’s shoulder, thrusting until he was spent completely. He lifted his mouth, saw the bite marks, the blood at Burr’s neck, the shattered glass on the floor next to him, “... Christ...fuck... _ Aaron… _ ” He breathed, incoherently coming down slowly, decadently. 

Hamilton languished in the pleasure of it, slowly grinding his hips, keeping his arm wrapped around Burr’s neck, the feeling of their slick bodies together. Their breaths moved in unison; Burr kept himself steady against the chaise, one hand gripping the arm, the other, the side. He slowly let his breaths return to normal, keeping his eyes closed.

Hamilton slid off of him slowly, biting his bottom lip, leaving a trail of kisses down Burr’s spine. The sight of goosebumps in the wake of his mouth made Hamilton wish he could fuck him again. It was  _ so  _ easy. He lifted himself off, with one final bite on Burr’s lower back. 

Burr took a deep breath, then lay flat on his stomach, eyes closed, head resting in the crook of his elbow, breathing softly. 

Hamilton sat on the edge of the chaise, reaching for his breeches, “You need to clean that up.”

“I don’t  _ care _ ,” Burr responded quietly. Hamilton stood, shirtless, looking down at him. 

“You’re disgusting, colonel,” A shadow of a smile.

Burr turned over, onto his back, still naked, shamelessly, “You loved every  _ second  _ of it. Are we even, now?”

Hamilton watched him, skin still tingling, searching his body and wishing there were some drink, some potion, some spell to make him hard again. _ God, you would fuck him all night if you could, wouldn’t you?  _ Hamilton heard the familiar voice in his head, looked at Burr’s mouth, closed, silent, smiling. 

“I said, are we even now?” Burr sat up, grabbing his own pants, tugging them on despite the missing buttons. He broke eye contact with Hamilton, expression falling at the sight of his ruined breeches, “Oh, these were my good ones, too, general.”

“Watch out for the glass,” Hamilton indicated to the floor near the chaise.

“You just destroyed everything tonight, didn’t you?”

Hamilton walked over to Burr, putting a strand of black hair back into place. He dropped his voice, “Until next time, Colonel.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
